Sometimes the best stories come from the close calls that you almost fucked but didn’t. Or perhaps best is not quite the right adjective. More like interesting…or pathetic. I learned my lesson the one and only time I went for a younger guy. You see, most men feel like it’s pretentious of me to discriminate based on age. But, hello ladies and gents, there’s logic to everything! Old men are just more knowledgable, skilled and less clingy. But, alas, I can’t be so unfair to not give a boy a chance. So, when I met Exhibit A at a sloppy club, I decided to give it a try. However the story of our meeting and eventual hook-up has to be one of my favorites, even if it was a close call.

It all started when one of my underage chick friends wanted to go to a shady bar that lets younguns in. While the place seemed sketch, I obliged her and put on my fanciest white trash get up and cabbed it out to the questionable neighborhood. To my surprise and enjoyment, it was crawling with beautiful brown men (to reiterate, I LOVE brown men). The first man of the night was somewhat of a dud. Clearly ten or so years older than me and desperate, it was obvious he was on the look out for some vulnerable underaged tail. After one dance, I quickly moved on, skipping merrily to the bar for some more of the juice, which I had too much of already. It was there I met Kal Penn’s look-alike. I was enamored. It took no effort for him to drag me onto the dance floor to grind ever-so classy like. We didn’t even get through one song before he started shamelessly making out with me, which I accepted graciously since he was so handsome. About halfway through the the 2nd song, I felt a hand up my dress and, with one quick movement, into my underwear and a digit or two slipped inside of me. All the while, in my drunken state, this was what was going through my head:
“hmm, that’s kinda nice. Oh wait, we’re in public. Do people see this? Is this normal? Maybe I’m just not used to this and it’s par for course. Or, wait, this is definitely not normal.” But I was slow moving and so this took about 45 seconds to process. When I should have immediately swatted him away, it continued. Finally I pulled away. “man, we’re in public.” I said.
“Girl let’s get out of here. I wanna fuck you so bad.” Well, gotta value forwardness.
“I am not leaving yet. My friends are here and we’re not leaving yet.”
“Fuck your friends! Don’t you wanna get fucked?” Hmm, why’s he being so pushy?
“Let’s just dance a little while longer and then go in a while when my friends are leaving. We just got here.”
“You have 5 seconds to make a decision. I can find someone else to fuck.” he said. Ok then, you totally just blew that. Without another word, I kissed him on the cheek and walked away.

That’s how I finally ran into Exhibit A, a nervous little Persian standing against the wall. I love preying on shy boys and after that overly bold encounter with Mr. Slippy Fingers, I saw my boy in the corner as a good candidate and, after 40 minutes of grinding and making out and refighting off the first two guys who rudely tried to interrupt, I settled on this one. I only had doubts when he told me he wasn’t old enough to even buy a drink. “EWW!” I thought. I never do younger guys, especially underaged ones. But my friends urged me to not discriminate and so I decided to give it a shot. Why not? How could it be bad? But, in an effort to try and keep it marginally classy, I decided to get his number and arrange something at a different time.

Three days later, he was at my apartment. This time it was daylight and this time we were sober. Boy oh boy was that sickeningly awkward. We were fighting to muster up some small talk before diving in. In fact, he seemed far too nervous to even make a move, even though I was clear in my texts that it would be an evening in. After 30minutes of painful small talk, we finally started our sloppy kissing and awkward undressing. Being the exhibitionist that I am, I kept my blinds open for all the world to see me in my bare bosom glory, rubbing his dick through his pants. He seemed really into it. Maybe too into it? Because before I knew it, the pants came off and the dick was soft. My only guess was that he jizzed in his pants, which I’ve never seen happen before.

Thats ok, I guess. I followed my usual protocol when a dick is soft: be calm, don’t make him feel bad, just start kissing and stroking it a little until it grows. However, this method only works when he just can’t get it up, not if he already blew his load. Yet, in an effort to overcome this humiliating moment, he urged me to keep sucking and tugging for the next half hour, even though I was content to just cuddle or something lame. He even attempted to put his half soft dick in, unskillfully thrusting and falling out. The whole ordeal was humiliating and I felt so bad for the guy.

After a little while I pretended my roommate was texting me and telling me he was on his way home. Exhibit A quickly got dressed and headed out. For better or worse, I never heard from him again. But the whole experience just reinforced my long-standing belief: never go younger.

I remember the early days of my sexual prowess. Before the double digits and random and possibly dangerous hook-ups. Back in the early days, I used to brag that I’ve never kissed anyone hadn’t slept with, essentially admitting that making out was like a guaranteed in for me. His was largely true with the exception of Number Three. Number Three and I met when I was about 17 and I was a pretty little virgin who was too apprehensive about seeing a dick outside of a porno. He and I worked at an internship together (ironically the same internship I met Number One at). He was the first boy to ever see my boobs, which was a big deal back in the day.

Number Three was a bit older than and did not necessarily want to get in trouble, so unfortunately, although he was my first kiss and I was all starry-eyed and naive about how dreamy his short little white self was (a good three inches shorter than me), he never felt compelled to pop my cheerily the few months we worked together over the summer before he went back to the other side of the country for school.

Yet three years later, after I had my triumphs with Number One and the school teacher, we found each other through social media. When I got a message from him saying he was stopping in my city for a funneral, I had to admit I was pretty excited to make the “I’ve slept with everyone I’ve kissed” claim true. As poor tasteas a booty call after a funneral is, neither of us were shy about meeting up. After reserving my dorm room for privacy, he showed up after being at a bar. We caught up on what we’ve been doing all this time, and when he found out I started to smoke weed, he smiled and suggested we go to his car for a hit. It was the first time I’d ever mixed the joys of a high from marijuana and the high from sensuality. Eager to try, I followed him to the car that was parked in the dark, rainy parking lot. As we smoked, he used such an incredible line on me, how coud I resist?
“Damn, you really filled out. Look at your titties. It’s like they’re gonna come out of your blouse.” He was so charming he punctuated that statement with a nice stroke along my cleavage.
“Well, maybe you’ll get to see for yourself when we go upstairs.” I smiled, amused more than usual due to the high.
“Why not here in the car AND upstairs?” he laughed as he proceeded to grab me and pull me towards the backseat. How could I resist? Any modern whore would never refuse an opportunity to have sex more than once in one night. We wasted no time pulling off each other’s pants and making out all over the floor like a couple of high schoolers. The stoned surrealness and soft sound of rain made the raunchy scene seem so passionate. Without further adeu, we dove right in, cramped in that funky half missionary position on the backseat. Much to my surprise and enjoyment (and slightly stoned anxiety), that short little white boy was enormous. Like pornographic, looks like it throws off the gravity of his tiny body huge. It initially took my breath away as it just seemed incomprehensibly big, something I did not even remotely expect. Just as my body was adjusting to the pain of stuffing what was comparable to a forearm into my tiny hole, it he finished up. Ok, not too impressive, but hey. As we got dressed, he slapped my ass and said, “let’s go upstairs and do this some more.” how can I resist such a suggestion?

We went back upstairs for round two…and three…and four. It was like this guy had an endless supply of ejaculation in his horsecock. It was big enough to cause pain, but the kind of pain you like. However, unlike my previous experiences, this man was all about aggressiveness. When I squirmed in apparent discomfort and requested he ease up,he went harder. I thought I would cry if i didnt secretly enjoy it so much. It was the first time I had ever had my breasts smacked, like the reverse of spanking. But I went ahead with it. “Different folks, different strokes, I guess.” I thought to myself. We tried every position. Sideways, from behind,me on top, him on top, etc. And every try was the same. Rough and objectifying. To some extent, he didn’t even seemed impressed,silent and detached, which somehow made me more eager to take the roughness.

Perhaps it was the weed,or the nostalgia I felt from seeing him after all those years, or the inherent submissiveness I feel as a sex partner being aggressively dominated. But at the end of all that I was really into it, even though it was a little different for me.

Everyone loves a good one night stand and everyone knows what one typically looks like : man goes to bar. Woman goes to bar. Man gets hard. Man hits on everything that moves. Woman drinks too much. Woman grinds all over dance floor. Man and woman lower standards. Man and woman find each other. The magic begins. The magic ends and maybe one spends the night becuse they’re too sloshed to go home right after. Visiting person leaves shortly after daybreak, little comes from it. Typical. Same set-up for many of our shameless nights. Recipe fora sure thing and a good time with no strings attached.

However, sometimes it does not work outsource smoothly. Number five was one of those one night stands that just wasn’t as raunchy and cool and zipless as you’d hope. It started stoutly after 1am. As usually, I was just getting off of my waitressing shift and went straight to the dive bar around the corner to meet up with a friend. Sadly, since it was already late she was already nice and drunk and finding herself a hook up for the night. I had a lot of catching up to do and fast. So, in the usual fashion, I chugged my vodka red bulls and got my grinding on to the shitty iPod music the bartender was playing. Looking real sexy in my faded jeans and pizza stained uniform shirt, I wasted no time throwing myself at the first relatively cute blue eyed boy who found me on the dance floor. Of course, by this time,my friend was well on her way out with her catch. Number five was not feeling shy about getting close as we danced and sending the right signals. With the flirtatious comments and pecks on my lips as a confirmation, I felt ready to get going.

As we walked out of the bar towards my apartment,I stumbled drunkenly to lead the way. Number five, at this point made the horrid mistake to start talking.
“my ex-fiancé just wasn’t as confident as you are. She was my first.”
Shut up. I don’t give a shit.
“This is a picture of us. We broke up because she just wasn’t sensitive enough.”
Oh my god. Who cares? I’m not your therapist.
“I want you to know I’m a good listener. It pisses me off how guys just only want one thing.”
Ok, he has to be bluffing. I’m experienced enough at this to know this technique. Men, in their infinite wisdom, think that this is what women want to hear. They think I’d be more willing if I think they’re sensitive and shit, but really they’re full of it. Assuming this was the case, against my better judgement, I took him home.

A nice little pole dancing show and a blow job will shut him up,I thought, and proceeded as such. The only weird part of this was the starry-eyed gaze he gave me as I worked it on my pole. No no no! I’m stripping. You don’t look at a stripper lovingly, man, wtf?
“Oh, you’re so amazing and beautiful. ” What?! Maybe I’m just not normal. Maybe I’m not romantic. But when you bring a man home, drunk, not giving a shit, it’s pretty clear that I’m not looking fora boo and I only want you for your body. I was annoyed, a little turned off, but still willing.

The sex itself was nothing to write home about and too drunk or short to care. But what followed sucked the most. An overly aggressive cuddle and comments like “how was I? I lasted lo enough, right?” and the worst one to endure “do you think I need to lose weight?”
Panic, disgust, anger, annoyance. All at once in my half lucid state. Did I bring home a girlfriend? Is this man a crier? Does he pee sitting down? I hope I didn’t get him pregnant. I hope he understands I’m not interested. With little response, I fell fast asleep.

The worst part may have been waking up to him looking down at me and caressing my face. I sat up and said “so, you live around here right? You’ll be able to walk?” hello, sir,get a clue.
“Well, I wanted to hang out until you go to work.” No No No No
“umm, that’s ok, I’m busy.”
After an awkward hunt for his clothes and brushing him out the door I wanted to puke. Worst one night stand ever.
Moral of the story: hey sensitive guys – women who take you home just to fuck, she doesn’t want stood listener. You don’t meet your wife at a dive bar at 1am!

Once again it seems I have taken a hiatus from my leisurely blogging about my skimpy adventures. Of course, such is life. In the grand scheme of work, play, friends, and my renewed hobby of pole dancing, it’s been quite a busy time. Moreover, I’ve been trying my hand at this monogamy thing (an uncustomary trait of a common whore). The experience is, dare I say, wonderful. And, as the dedicated readers of my blog (all two of you) shall know soon enough, the sex is spectacular.

It’s kinda funny to think about. Number 15, the main squeeze, was a pretty atypical choice for me and made me think a lot about my personal opinions on sex, love and relationships. Of course, as modern whore, I know my fair share of meaningless sex for a gamet of reasons: the story, for fun, the result of alcoholism, the story, to pass the time, spite, the story, or a coping mechanism. Did I mention the story?

What’s different about Number 15 is that it’s probably the first time in a long time first came feelings, then came sex. To be explicit, I was Number 15’s Number 1. Interestingly enough, against my natural instinct to abandon ship when I found out my potential partner was not on the same experience level as I was, I decided to stick it out. After all, I’m used to not getting passed the second date without cracking. So, after a few weeks of combating his nervousness and anxiety, we finally got around to my favourite activity. And I am happy to report that, like all learning, a patient and willing teacher creates an amiable product. The sex is mind-blowing five months later and it’s put my sex teacher skills to the test :).

Don’t despair, however, that my monogamy will end my contribution to a rich and excite sex blog. A modern whore always has stories to share 🙂

I do apologize for that long hiatus. It seems as though I lost sight of why began this blog as I tried to trudge forward in the dating world. I forgot how therapeutic it is to pour these intimate details onto the world wide web. I also realize how easy it is to get lost in the search for meaning or a partner.

Let me have a moment to be super melodramatic for a moment (for we do not have enough moments like these in blogging right?). After a little less than a year of being broken up, Number 1 has found someone else. It’s weird trying to find the word to describe how that makes me feel. Surprised? Well, no, people usually move on. Hurt? Well, no, he’s not doing it to hurt me; he’s finding happiness. Jealous? Maybe a little, but I feel like that word implies some bitterness that isn’t there? Oh, I know…empty. Whilst the one I love(d?) is moving on and finding meaning and happiness, I’m grasping at straws. So desperate, even, that I almost gave Number 10 (the do you want to touch it fellow) a ring.

There are advantages and perks to being themodernwhore. First, of course, are the experiences. My stories are funny and great to reflect on. Second, there’s something very liberating about being uninhibited. I feel more brave and confident because my experience often gives me leverage or my security helps me move along while others may be too insecure to explore.

But the burden of it, however, is the empty, meaningless feeling I have at the end of the day. Everyone I ever loved out of all my trysts have now moved on and found their own meaning in people who just aren’t me, which leaves me weighing my options with slim pickings. I fuck and I fuck and I fuck. Yet it’s like being so hungry for something and only getting a little to eat, leaving you starved for more. At the end of the night, they leave, off to find the next person who will likely mean more to them.

I’m not sure where I’m at in my life now. I’m not too fond of the idea of hanging the whore hat just yet, but I am sort of burning through options and potential fast and it leaves me with a sad, cold feeling. However do I find a happy median?

It seems pretty fitting that Number 3 was my first one-night-stand. Given that Number 1 was my serious boyfriend and Number 2 was the teacher who was a steady lay for over a year, I decided to try something new. Actually, that’s kind of a lie. I did not make much of a decision. This was one of those instances we are all so fond of as ladies. One of those nights where “it just happened.” I air-quote it sarcastically because, given the circumstances, I can’t honestly say it was one of those “just happened” decisions.

It was my friend’s 21st birthday. She was a foreign exchange student from Germany who was attending school at my college along with dozens of other students studying abroad from other countries. They all had a nice, tightly-knit group since they attended all the same classes in the program, and I was her weird American friend she perchance met at a meeting for a club. As is fashion for someone studying abroad in a new country, she wasn’t going to stay in for her birthday. She decided to have a big fancy dinner at a big fancy restaurant with over thirty people in attendance. Like a good friend, I came for the celebration. But, when all the people at the table didn’t cough up enough for their share of the bill and left before we could confront any of them, we were stuck with a bill that was $150 short. That’s how I met Number 3.

Number 3, who I had never met before in the dozens of times I had gone out partying with my friend and the foreigners, was a Saudi Arabian student and a classmate of my friend. He was not terribly good-looking, not terribly bad-looking, and surely nothing that caught my attention to begin with. Without even blinking, Number 3 pulled out his credit card and handed it to the waiter, “Just put the rest on this.” he said, ballin’ as shit as we all we obviously impressed. I turned to another girl in the party and asked who he was. “Oh, he’s a sultan prince. He does this all the time.” Whether or not the statement about him being a Sultan is true is surely up for debate among the faithful internet community. I decided to trust it because 1) I’m more likely to believe it when it’s someone other than him telling me this; someone who obviously wasn’t winging for him or had anything to gain from lying about it and 2) Even if he wasn’t a Sultan, he was ballin’ like one.

Further proof of this evidenced when we went along to the next bar and he bought us all two rounds of SoCo and a bottle of champagne. Holy shit, this guy is hella loaded. Call me shallow; call me trashy; call me a prostitute. But I bet there are only a select few women in this world who wouldn’t be just a little impressed. Especially given where I was in life at the time: a poor college sophomore who ate Ramen and only drank one drink at a bar because she didn’t have the budget for much else. I come from a pretty modest background, so this five-star party was new to me. So, with my good looks and charm, I took a stab at making small talk. Before I knew it, I was asking him if I could bum a cigarette (a classic move I use that can show good results), and he was lighting it for me with his fancy lighter. He leaned in and kissed me as we were standing in front of the bar smoking, waiting for the others to catch up so we can move on to the next bar for the night. As you would expect with someone that rich, he wasn’t coy and he made a move with purpose. When everyone finally came out, we started to walk to the metro.

“Guess what, I’m going to give her a birthday surprise!” Number 3 whispered to me as we walked.

“What are you getting her?” I asked.

“I’m going to rent out a big suite at the Marriott so we can have a hotel party!” I responded with a laugh. Yeah right I thought. This guys wasn’t even close friends with her. Why would he spend so much money to rent out the suite? But I learned something about Number 3 very quickly – he was a man of his word. After orchastrating a distraction while he got the room, we were at the top floor of the Marriott in a gorgeous suite with 3 bottles of champagne and 6 people dancing around. Kick ass.

I went to the bathroom and was washing my hands when there was a knock at the door. “Who’s in there?” I heard his voice. “Oh just me” I said as I turned off the sink. Without another moment of hesitation, he let himself in and pushed me onto the sink, grabbing me and kissing me. I couldn’t help but think this was like a scene right out of a porno. But I wasn’t about to let how cliche this was stop me from getting my fill of a Sultan Prince in a Marriott bathroom during a hotel party. He was very pushy and aggressive, just how I like it. And, realistically, I wouldn’t have expected a baller like that to be bashful.

The next thing I knew, my pants were down, I was on the sink, and Number 3 had a face full of tig-ole bitties while people knocked on the door, obviously needing to pee. Who cares though, he paid for the hotel and he was getting his for the night. He was much more unattractive naked than clothed and I wasn’t too impressed with his size. But none of that matters when you’ve had one too many glasses of free(and expensive) champagne and feel like you’re the chosen one out of the half dozen girls at the party. As I was on my knees on the cold floor of the bathroom, I started to doubt and become apprehensive. Is this a good idea? I just met him. Is this dangerous? But, after the flood of logic came to my brain, the only thing my body could do was say “Eh, fuck it”…quite literally.

On the sink, bent over the toilet, in the shower, on the floor. I am definitely one to utilize my space. And utilize I did. And tacky bathroom fuck we did. It wasn’t much, as you can imagine with limited surface area. And since he was small, I didn’t really feel much going on. Not to mention, he was a selfish partner (and, hey, if I was loaded, I guess I’d be too), so the fun part was only so-so. He couldn’t finish, because he complained about using protection and wanted to go bareback, something I wasn’t brave enough to do. So after about 20 minutes of making people hold their pee, we got dressed and he smacked my ass one the way out. I never talked to him again after the party, but it didn’t make the story any less cool.

Number 1 and I had the greatest sex-life. No really, not only did we have the ideal open relationship to accommodate my sexual needs when we were far apart, but we also just had sensational sex and we had it pretty regularly. He may have been my first, but he was also the best. I got very lucky in the respect that my first partner made sex so enjoyable for me and was so open and built my confidence that I never saw sex as something to be ashamed of. I attribute a lot of my sexual confidence and talent to Number 1’s ability to foster those things as a great lover.

The first summer I came back from college Number 1 had moved into a new house he rented with one of his friends; a much more comfortable venue for sex than the small room in his family’s house. That summer we wanted to try new things to keep our sex life interesting and fun.

Through my experience in college, I learn I loved handcuffs, a normative but still creative enhancement to sex. One day when his roommate was at work we we fucking in bed with the handcuffs when I pulled him away from the bed. I had an idea. His house had a staircase with carpeted stairs. I led him to the stairs and sat on one of them and spread my legs open as he spread my arms across the stairs and handcuffed them to the railings on both sides. He climbed on top of me. The stairs elevated him to such an angle of entry that was just incredible. My ass was being driven into a carpet, making a stair-shaped rug-burn that hurt so good. I came so hard I soaked the carpet. His knees got covered in rug-burn and the cuffs scraped into my skin, but we didn’t notice because we were screaming so loud we were afraid the neighbors would call the police. I don’t think I’ve ever had an orgasm so tremendous as I did on those stairs.

Another occasion that summer stemmed from another spontaneous idea of mine. Number 1 had a pull-up bar in his bathroom hanging in front of the mirror. One day we were having sex and, again, I pulled him away from the bed. I led him to the bathroom and I grabbed a hold of the armstraps that he had hanging from the pull-up bar. He wrapped my legs around his waist as I held on and fucked me as I was suspended in the air. It was easy for him to go hard and deep and it felt sensational. Not only did I get to enjoy the unique feeling of being suspended in the air, but I also got to be fucked in front of the mirror, one of my all-time favorite pass-times. I let myself down then put one of my legs in the armstraps so I was almost doing a vertical split, allowing him the perfect angle to get me sideways. It was an experience that showed me there were angles and nerves I didn’t even know about.

Later that summer we went hiking at a nearby desert trail. We hiked for a little while and found a cave where we sat to eat the sandwiches we brought out with us for the hike. As we sat there, I felt a little naughty. “What if I gave you head right here?” I smiled. Number 1 laughed and made a joke about how the bible says you shouldn’t spill your seed on god’s earth. With that encouragement, I proceeded to go to work, giving him head in the cave that overlooked the canyon below. When he came, instead of doing my usual swallow, I pointed his dick at the ground so he’d come on god’s earth.

The story of Number Ten was one that, before it happened, I surely thought would end up in the “hot fuck” category. Number 10 is far and away the hottest man I’ve slept with so far. In my years working at the restaurant with the Turks, I also met people who worked nearby who frequented the restaurant for the good food. It just so happened that next door was a liquor store owned by an Indian family. It also just so happened that I LOVE brown men and I LOVE alcohol even more. From the moment I turned 21, I was in that store all the time buying alcohol. The son who worked at the store was tall, dark, handsome and very flirtatious. I had a massive crush on him and finally got up the balls to ask him to come out with me for New Years Eve. What a better way to ring in the New Year?

At this point I didn’t even know Number 10’s name. But who cared? He was hot and willing to come party. But as luck would have it a co-worker of mine came along with us to the club and Number 10 brought a friends. As Number 10 and his friend waited outside for the bouncer to let them in, not 20 minutes after us girls were let in, she was kicked out for her drunken insanity and unconscious racism in a largely black club. The club was a bust and, as she jumped into a cab, I was left with Number 10 and his fellow Indian friend, wondering which one was trying to get with me.

The rest of the festivities were boring at best. Neither guy was all that interesting, and we ended up at a bar where they barely drank and were hesitant to even dance. I was frustrated that my first moments of 2011 had gone down the drain in such a boring tri-date with two guys who were 10 years older than me and had no life left in them. When we left the bar, Number 10 offered me a ride home. Oh well, at least I get a free ride home. I thought.

As we were driving home and I was thinking about what a waste of time it was to pursue him because 1)he showed no interest all night and 2)he was boring as fuck, my train of thought was interrupted when he said, pretty much out of the silence of the car ride, “I’m pretty horny.” What?! Where’d that come from? What the fuck?!

“Yeah, me too,” is all I could say: the appropriate response for a modern whore. There was a long pause and I sorta chuckled uncomfortably not knowing what a guy says to follow that statement. You’d usually expect something along the lines of “wanna go back to my place?” or “I’m glad we’re finally alone,” something that logically flows with the flirtation. Instead, he said something that will forever be burned into my memory as the worse, but oddly enough, most effective pick up line I’ve ever heard.

“Do you wanna touch it?”

I chuckled again out of giggly drunkeness and awkwardness. Well…isn’t this kinda what I wanted in the first place? Sure enough, he was boring, but I wasn’t going to deny I’ve thought of that dick in my mouth at one time or another when I’d visited the liquor store. “OK!” I said excitedly as I reached across the seat as he was driving and stroked the big bulge on his thigh. He moaned and, way too excitedly, I went right to it. “Don’t you want to see it?” he asked. I wasted no time pulling out that dick while he was driving and going to work on it. Now, don’t try this at home kids. Giving a drunk driver road head is not advisable, and certainly isn’t the proudest decision I ever made. But, fuck it. It was a pretty dick and it was a pretty guy. He somehow safely got us back to my apartment without crashing and we went upstairs.

“Hey, I’m not looking for anything serious.” he admitted. I appreciated how open this guy was. I had my experiences with men who were passive, who were unclear, or just never told me what they wanted, physically or emotionally. But this guy, wow thanks buddy! I agreed to the casualness of this encounter and took him to my room. He went to use the restroom while I sat on the bed waiting, in disbelief that I had taken home such a knock-out. He emerged from the bathroom and stood over me.

“Do you like getting fucked in the ass?”

What the fuck?! That was way forward. What? No vaginal intercourse then asking this question? No more foreplay?

“Ummm, no, actually, I’m not really a fan.”

“Oh, c’mon, it’s New Years, baby.” He said. And that changes my mind how? I shook of the odd request as just a preference and proceeded to pick up where I left off in the car, giving him head. “Spit on it!” he demanded. Hmm, that’s a new one. But different folks different strokes I guess. I hesitated but obeyed. He enjoyed the way I was able to take the whole dick in my mouth, a talent I’m proud of. But when he shoved my head down and I coughed in surprise, he moaned “Oh god yeah, choke! Gag on it.” Whhattt? I wasn’t used to this. It seemed odd, especially considering I’d never heard that from the nine partners before.

“C’mon, let me fuck you in the ass and cum in your face.” he urged again.

“No no, that’s ok. I really just don’t want to do that.” Call me lame or unadventurous, but in this day and age and from the amount of sex I’ve had, I have a clear idea of my comfort zone and preferences and have every right to tell a stranger what I don’t want to do. He continued to persist, in between demanding more spit and gagging. There was a level of openness he had with me I had only seen in men I was involved with romantically. That’s so weird that he’s this forward.

The intercourse itself kind of sucked. It didn’t last too long and his variety of moves was lacking. But I was satisfied enough to let him sleep over as I laid there regretting my decision to let him stay over. The next morning was so severely awkward, with the small talk and getting dressed.

“I work out every morning. Do you like how my body looks?” I cringed. Not because he didn’t have a good body (it was pretty nice), but because I HATE men who seek validation about their bodies the way a woman would say, “Do I look fat?” “Yeah, great.” I said. Before he left, we agreed to keep it casual and fun.

But every encounter got stranger and stranger. “Wanna do something kinky?” he asked on the second “date.” “Of course!” I’m always game for kink to a certain degree.

“Would you take a shot of my cum out of a shot glass?” Hmmm, I think I’ll pass.

Or the time he asked for a three-sum. Don’t get me wrong, I’d love to have one. But I had no interested friends and most of my girlfriends were in relationships. “Sorry, I don’t have any girlfriends who are willing, Number 10.”

“Would they change their mind if they saw me?” Wow, gee, I bet they will, douchey-douche!

And it would make me giggle when he used the line “do you wanna touch it?” every fucking time we hooked up. Something I learned fast: this guy has little game and is unforgivably awkward. Perhaps I’ll think twice before I fall for that line again.

I’ve been working at a restaurant for a couple of years now. The owners and a fair percentage of the employees are all Turkish. Through my experience at work, I’ve realized my preference for Turkish cock. Thankfully, that preference has subsided (and you will see why soon), but for a while there I had a little Turkish hat trick going. That is, I had successfully slept with three Turkish men in the same social circle. The second one I slept with, Number 6 in my repertoire, was a sketchy experience at best.

We had been working together about six months at this point. I had become very close friends with him and another Turkish guy who worked there. The three of us did everything together – clubbing, shopping, going out to eat, etc. It seemed pretty normal as tripod friendships go, as in there was no favoritism or sexual tension. They were like brothers to me. However, when the other Turkish man went back to visit his family for a few weeks, it was just me and Number 6; two peas in a pod. Sure, it was weird without our third best friend there, but Number 6 was my friend, right? It was no big deal hanging out with just him while the other one was out of town, yeah?

Wrong. One night he took me to a party at a friend’s house. Because we had closed the restaurant and it was after midnight, the party was starting to simmer down and people were staring to leave. We drank a bit with his buddy (although I drank much more than a bit), before everyone had cleared out and his buddy took a girl into his room to get some of his own. So there we were in the living room, in a person’s house I didn’t know, totally alone. I got a little nervous and decided to start cleaning up bottles off the floor when he grabbed me and tossed me on the couch. Next thing I knew we were making out. His cigarette breath right into my open mouth. It was one of those moments I’m sure you’ve had before where the only thing in your mind is What the fuck is going on?

I pulled away, “Umm, I don’t think this is a good idea.” was all I was able to stammer in the shock.

“Nah, it’s cool.” he responded. I pulled my face away from his.

“I’m not sure this is a good idea,” I responded once again, with more confusion than the first time.

“Don’t worry about it baby.” He said.

“Is this going to make it weird at work?” I asked.

“I dunno.” he said as he shrugged, ignoring the implication of my question, as he kept kissing me and putting his hands down my pants, feeling my pussy over my underwear. Oh no. Oh man. That’s my vagina. Number six was going for the vajayjay goodies and my obvious resistance and confusion wasn’t really deterring him. Oh, that’s the inside of my underwear. I wouldn’t say I was physically struggling or being overpowered. More like squirming in discomfort. With a last ditch effort to deter him, my drunk self thought the solution would be to say, “We don’t even have a condom. I don’t think we should do this.”

“Oh, I have a condom.” He said, pulling his hand out of my pants to fish one out of his wallet. Ok, you win I guess, was all I could really think. And so it is…

What happened next was what I like to call “consensual rape.” Meaning I gave in, even though I wasn’t really diggin’ him, but I didn’t really have any more excuses, nor the backbone or moral principle to refuse sex. So, right there, on this stranger’s couch, at a house I’d never been too, in the open living room, Number 6 slipped on the condom and slipped his dick into me as we laid in missionary position nearly fully clothed. It only lasted about a minute. So I supposed the lesson to be learned here is that consensual rapists aren’t too good at what they do. He finished cumming before I could comprehend the sex had started and got up to dispose of the condom. Holy shit, I’m dizzy was all I could think before I struggled to stand up in my drunken stupor and headed to the bathroom. I stayed in there for about five minutes. Originally just to pee, but ultimately vomiting from alcohol intake and possibly shame from what happened with Number 6. He knocked on the door. “You ok?” The room was spinning. I washed my face and came out, where I passed out on the couch with him in the darkness of the livingroom.

The next morning, his buddy and the girl he got lucky with came out of the room and woke us up. We had to get up for work and had an hour to get there. Number 6 helped me up off the couch and we walked out. There on the floor as we walked out was a condom wrapper. Oh hell. I was pretty hungover, and still pretty bummed the performance was terrible after all that persuasion. Way to make good decisions, girl.

Number 1 and I started dating about the beginning of my senior year of high school. He was about 8 years older than me, treated me great and was the first serious relationship I had ever been in. However, he and I were realistic in our outlook. He knew I was going to go to college at a school far away and I know college was to be a threshold of experience for me. As such, we broke up when I moved away. Yet, since we were still so close, we quickly got back together, with the understanding of an open relationship.

It did not take me long to add Number 2 to the list and take advantage of my open relationship. I was thoroughly impressed with myself for taking this one on. When I was a senior in high school I had an incredibly gorgeous math teacher who I had a huge, literal “school girl crush” on. As luck would have it, when I moved across the country to go to school, he had simultaneously relocated to the same area to train for a new job. He emailed me in my second week of college and asked me if I wanted to go to dinner. Mind you, this was back when I was a little more classy and didn’t put out on the first date…so I banged him on the second one!

It was trashy, it was scandalous, and it was some of the best car sex I’d ever had. I remember that session quite vividly, even years later. We had gone out on a date that morning to the zoo, which somehow ended up in us hanging out until the wee hours of the next morning. He drove up to my dorm and parked in a space right in front of the glass door of the bottom level of the building. We spent hours talking and flirting. Now, my style was never to make the first move, so it was a slow process waiting and waiting. Finally, after about four hours of chatting he beckoned me onto his lap. Who turns that kind of request down? Yet, as you can imagine, the set-up of a car makes things like straddling a man’s lap and touching his dick in the front seat a little difficult. He pushed me into the back seat. At this point in my sexual experience, I had only been with one man and I was very timid. I could tell he caught on to this quick, as he noticed I was too shy to go straight for the dick. Without a word, he shoved my hand in his pants and climbed on top of me.

So many things running through my mind: Is this really happening? Him? Really? Him? I mean, I know I thought he was hot in high school, but I never thought anything would happen. How did I get so lucky? I was lost in the adrenaline of ecstasy and the amazement of the reality. The sounds of students talking no more than 10 feet from the car, smoking cigarettes in front of the dorm building, highlighted the realization that we were in a car. That we were, essentially, in public. This 19-year old girl and 32 year old man: fooling around in a car in front of a dorm. He stopped at the sound of their voices and hesitated. But there was no going back. Not with me. I pulled him down, kissing him, and he proceeded to finger me better than I’d ever been fingered up til that night. I am a sensitive woman, and I cum a lot, so I think it was a pleasant surprise for him when I came several times and soaked his backseat. He smiled and reached for a backpack he brought and pulled out a condom. Way to plan I thought. There was no going back. Holy shit, the condom was on and I was going to fuck my teacher from high school. As you can imagine, the car limits your positions and your duration a bit. After mostly missionary position and his failed attempts to keep me from screaming in ecstasy, we finished up as the sun was rising. My first walk of shame back into my dorm was after a raunchy back-seat fuck in the back of my teacher’s car.

I was happy to find out that would not be the last time. A text message the next day saying “hey sexy, that was fun. Thanks for last night” was all the green light I needed for my affair. And, to my amusement, the escapades only got sexier. Masturbating each other as we watched porn, using handcuffs, spankings that left marks, and even weekend getaways where we’d stay in bed fucking all night. My favorite experience with Number 2, however, was probably the most twisted adventure of them all. I remember one of my friends saying once “It’d be so fucked up if you dressed up as a school girl for him.” And, as you know, every time someone says something is a bad idea you want to do it. After asking him what he thought about it, Number 2 enthusiastically responded with a “Hell Yeah.”

We got a hotel for the weekend and I remember coming out of the bathroom in my schoolgirl skirt, pigtails, glasses, a black bra, and a open white button down. He was suited up in a tie and gray slacks and a blazer that made him look just like a professor. In hindsight, I see what my friends meant. It really is fucked up that this teacher, who only 6 months before was grading my papers and was not supposed to be sleeping with students was requesting me to get on my knees in my plaid skirt so he can pull my pony-tails as I deep-throated him. The irony, huh? And, of course, if you’re going to fuck me in my school girl outfit, you should do it in front of the mirror so we can watch, right? It was some of the hottest role playing I had ever done. As I watched my breast bounce back and forth, bent over in front of the mirror with my skirt pushed up around my waist, it made me so hot. I was so wet and came so hard as he pulled my pigtails. Shouldn’t I feel dirty? Eh, maybe, but the domination just made me so hot and seeing the reality of what was a stereo-typical porn fantasy drove me wild. Twisted? Maybe. Wrong? Definitely. Hot? Undoubtedly.

Sex Medicine:
Why cope when you can fuck?
This is an anonymous blog detailing the escapades of my love/sex life. The purpose of this blog is not only to provide my lovely readers in cyberspace with shock, awe, and mostly entertainment, but also to embody a philosophy I so deeply believe in: sex is awesome. Whether it be a tool of utility, an exchange for goods, a result of boredom or the traditional sequence in monogamy, sex is one of the most powerful talents at our disposal. Through my experience, I've grown (and devolved), learned lessons about life and challenged core beliefs. My hope is to give the world a laugh at some of the awkward stories of a whore with low standards and, more importantly, to empower people to embrace the power of sexuality.